


A patchwork of scars

by Aondeug



Category: Touhou Project
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Poetry, Romantic Hate, spades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 15:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: Night after night Kaguya and Mokou fight to the death, though it ultimately means nothing. This time Mokou's come out on the losing side. Thankfully there's nothing like a visit to a cafe to warm up the recently revived bones. Save, perhaps, thinking on how those bones were broken. A poem written for Femslash February 2019.





	A patchwork of scars

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "cafe".

She stumbles into the cafe at night  
half dead  
literally  
and plops herself down  
into a western styled seat  
in a western styled establishment.  
The mountain goddess made it?  
She thinks on that  
as she wipes the blood from her nose  
right with her right hand  
with nary a care  
for old taboos.  
  
It's a western styled establishment anyway,  
and what do they care for the taboos?  
Just look at the vampire.  
  
As she's looking at it,  
examining the red smear with something like fondness  
a timid "Um..." tumbles out  
pulling her from the reverie  
and she looks up to find a worker there,  
though not a waitress  
she doesn't look it.  
Not a menu, not at all.  
She stares the girl dead on,  
silent, confused,  
until the poor girl asks  
(pleads really)  
if she'd like to stand in line  
to order a drink.  
You know, some coffee or tea.  
  
A loud huff  
and pops a shoulder back into place  
before she stands up  
giving a quick sorry  
as sincere as she can make it  
after all these years  
and she stomps on off to the line  
knowing in her head  
that she's left dirt  
and she's left blood  
on the floor, on the seat  
and probably that table too.  
  
Not even a western place would like that,  
not even the vampire.  
  
She would like the menu though  
full of words  
with too many e's and these little marks  
right about those e's  
that can't bother to learn.  
Immortals, the true sort,  
they've more important things to mind.  
  
Coffee.  
  
A size?  
  
She gestures with her hands  
not sure how to say the words up there  
\--"Small?" and a nod--  
and notes that a finger's broken.  
Two. Three, even.  
Too many anyway.  
Like her teeth,  
come to think of it.  
  
That damned girl,  
the exiled bitch,  
she kicked them in, she did,  
right there that night  
and with a grin on her face  
at having been the victor this time.  
Give her some time though  
and she'll rip the whore limb from limb,  
leave her for the doctor to fix  
(if she's feeling nice).  
  
She feels  
Alive  
More alive than normal  
though she's half-dead.  
Bullets in the skies,  
nails upon flesh,  
swears in throats  
and an insult a millennia old.  
  
_Life._  
  
"Miss?"  
  
She pays  
sudden patter of coins on a counter  
and she leans against a wall  
wordless, waiting  
for a drink,  
for a warmth  
that's almost like hands  
but not quite.  
  
She'd felt them earlier,  
she'd remembered them later.  
  
Those hands  
closed around her throat.  
Those hands,  
ground into the pavement.  
Delicate,  
beautiful  
a pair she remembers better than her own name.  
  
Her drink, the call for it,  
it pulls her back and away  
from those hands,  
_her_ hands  
and she takes the cup  
and she notes the warmth  
that's almost like hands but not quite  
and she notes the bruises on her own.  
Patchwork patterns,  
a temporal art piece of hurt and hate  
that'll fade with time  
both from her body and her mind.  
  
But right now as she admires it  
she laughs loud  
and curses the exiled moon princess once more.  
  
Next time she'll kill her.  
Next time she'll kiss her.


End file.
